Chapter XVII: The Try-Out of Savage

It might have been noticed, however, that none of the old squad was late in arriving at the grounds next morning. Kennedy had announced that Gene Temple would start pitching for the Regulars, while Savage, the new twirler from the West, was to step into the box for the Yannigans.

“I’m going to give him a fair show,” the manager confided to Stillman. “He ain’t showed anything much in practice, and if he don’t put something on exhibition to-day I reckon we’ll have to hitch the can to him.”

In the camp of the Regulars knives were being sharpened for Savage’s scalp with a vigor which had rarely before been shown toward a recruit.

“I don’t seem to have taken to Jack’s latest treasure,” Dalton drawled as they were making ready for the game. “It would sort of please me to spill the beans for him to-day.”

“Now, I should sorrow!” said Rufe Hyland. “If little Nelsie gets his it will break my heart.”

“Gent seems to be awful popular,” chuckled Pink Dillon, of the pitching staff, who, arriving at camp late, had consequently seen little of the offending Savage.

“We all love him,” said Laughing Larry. “Wait till you run up against him about once, and you’ll be applying for membership in this knockers’ club. Now, fellows,” he added, as they trotted out into the diamond, “don’t forget to put in a little extra ginger to-day and blanket this sweet-tempered affair from the sagebrush. Snow him under so deep he won’t ever let another peep out of him.”

This was the explanation of an exhibition of peppery vim on the part of the Regulars which astonished Jack Kennedy. Usually the older and more experienced players care little for the results of these early practice games, and frequently they lose for the simple reason that they think more of their arms and legs than of piling up a score against a lot of youngsters. Later, of course, as they begin to shape up, the Yannigans find it less and less easy to accomplish anything against them; but even then the cubs’ downfall is generally due to some clever bit of headwork rather than to any great physical exertion on the part of their opponents.

The Regulars had the field. From the bench Lefty watched interestedly to see how Temple would act in his first appearance with big company. He had given the youngster a bit of advice as to taking things easy, and he was pleased to observe that he followed it.

Coombs, the first man up, got a hit and reached first. The second batter flied out to Douro, the center fielder, however; and Coombs, trying to steal second, discovered to his sorrow that the cub pitcher was far from being asleep. Two more stickmen faced Temple before a hot grounder toward Larry Dalton was whipped to first ahead of the runner.

“Now, fellows, remember!” urged Dalton as they trotted in from the field. “Let’s get after our amiable friend there, and show him something.”

The men were quite ready to obey his injunction. Batting is one of the greatest joys of a ball player’s existence. Moreover, the attitude of Nelson Savage as he strolled into the box, lips curled sneeringly, his whole manner one of careless nonchalance, as if he considered the crowd scarcely worth pitching to, was extremely aggravating.

Rufe Hyland hustled to the plate, barely able to restrain his impatience to get after the man who irritated him so. He fell with violent delight on the very first ball pitched, smashing it on a line into the field to the right of center, and reached the initial sack with ease.

Kid Lewis, who followed him, bunted nicely, sacrificing the outfielder to second, and almost making first himself. Max Douro landed on the horsehide with apparent ease, sending it out between second and short.

“All off with him,” chanted Dalton from the coaching line. “Got him going already! Everybody hits him! Now, Joe, get busy and send Rufe home.”

Welsh advanced confidently to the pan, and Hyland danced away from third. It was up to Savage to display his wares now or never. With a curious gleam in his eyes, Lefty glanced at Kennedy, who stood near, chewing a cigar and scowling at the Western pitcher.

The southpaw murmured to himself, “I can hear the jangle of the tin can now.”

But Welsh presently fouled out back of third, and the cub shortstop made a splendid one-handed stop of a red-hot liner smashed out by Ogan, by which the downfall of the pitcher on trial was apparently merely deferred for a brief time.

The second inning was practically a repetition of the first. In the first half a cub managed to reach third, where he languished and perished. When the sides changed the Regulars proceeded to the bat with that same zest and ardor, and in a brief space bases were filled with only one out.

From the bench Lefty was watching Savage closely, and he could not help granting the fellow a little grudging admiration. In spite of his wretched, slip-shod work; in spite of the way he was being hit all over the lot, the man’s attitude of insolent condescension had not altered. His lips still curled sneeringly; he continued to regard each batter with that same slow, heavy-lidded scrutiny which was like a slap in the face. As in the beginning, his manner gave one the impression that he was going through a childish performance which bored him to death.

“He’s got nerve enough for two,” muttered the southpaw.

Hyland came to the bat again. Seeking to duplicate his performance of the first inning, he hit the first ball over. It was an infield fly which the second baseman easily smothered.

“Too much of a rush, Rufe,” chided Dalton, who had been made temporary captain of the Regulars. “Take your time. Now, Kid, you know what to do. Tap it gently on the nose, and let’s have a few tallies.”

Continuing to watch Savage, it seemed to Lefty as if the man’s delivery had grown slower and slower. He certainly took his time in winding up, and for a man getting such poor results it seemed almost ludicrous.

His first three balls to Lewis were wide, and the batter declined to reach for any of them.

“Why the mischief don’t you try the spitter?” Locke wondered to himself. “Couldn’t do worse with it than you’ve done already. It’s supposed to be your one best bet.”

Savage evidently had no intention of following the unspoken advice, for he made no motion of the ball to his mouth. Slowly winding up, he lobbed one over that cut the outside corner, and Lewis, playing the game, let it pass.

“Strike!” called Pink Dillon, who was acting as umpire.

“That’s right, Kid,” approved Dalton. “Make him put ’em over. Make ’em be good!”

Again that maddeningly long-drawn-out wind-up; again a curve which shaved the rubber by such a narrow margin that Dillon hesitated a second before calling: “Two!”

Lewis, who had seemed on the point of swinging and then changed his mind, glared at the umpire.

“Clean your lamps, Pink!” he advised sarcastically. “They need it bad.”

“Never mind that, Kid,” admonished Dalton. “You’ll get him this time, all right. On your toes, boys! Run on the hit!”

Lewis scooped up a handful of dirt, rubbed it over his bat handle, and faced the pitcher with a firm squaring of his jaws. He looked as if he was ready to hit anything that came within a mile of the plate, and perhaps that was what made Savage such a long time getting into action. His movements were so deliberate and snail-like that the base runners, dodging away from the sacks in readiness for the hit, grew impatient.

“Get a move on!” called Dick Nelson from second. “Somebody put a stick of dynamite under him!”

“Just so we finish the inning in a couple of hours!” delicately hinted another.

The comments made no impression whatever on the sneering man in the box. Slowly he drew up his right arm, and leisurely cuddled the ball under his chin, his eyes fixed scornfully on the face of Kid Lewis. There was a pause which seemed eternal; then, with a whiplike motion, the arm uncurled, sending the horsehide spinning squarely across the center of the pan.

“Batter out!” cried Dillon.

His voice reflected the surprise that filled every man on the field. Lewis had not wiggled his stick. At the plump of the ball and the sound of the umpire’s voice, he gave a start and a gasp. Then, whirling, he stared down at the horsehide in the catcher’s mitt as if he had taken leave of his senses. An instant later, his face flaming, he turned on Dillon.

“What sort of a game do you call this?” he demanded angrily. “That ain’t the right ball! The guy out there never pitched at all!”